


Not One, But Two

by spicedrobot



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Breeding, Creampie, Drunk Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 02:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20481209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: For all that Lemm claims to enjoy solitude, there is something to Quirrel that is…well,pleasant.





	Not One, But Two

Few adventurers discover his shop, and that is fine by him. The little knight mostly kept Lemm in business, collecting all sorts of artifacts and trinkets, ones the relic seeker can show off, turn over in his hands, ones that help him piece together Hallownest’s lost histories.

It is naught but the little knight and the strange, familiarly-masked bug that interrupt his ponderings with something akin to regularity. The elder of them had wandered into Lemm’s shop one day and had kept visiting ever since, though he often went weeks between appearances. Distracted, he would say, or that he took the longer route. That seems to be his favorite excuse. Not that Lemm is paying attention.

Empty-headed. Lackadaisical. But Quirrel always brings something nice. Shiny, old artifacts. Ancient idols. Once an arcane egg. How one so scatterbrained managed such feats still astounds him. And he stayed and spoke, unlike the little knight. Mentions things that none should know, words that shine new light on items in his collection, like a key clicking into place. Then he would continue prattling none the wiser, and Lemm would shoo him off. 

Who is Quirrel, really?

For all that Lemm claims to enjoy solitude, there is something to Quirrel that is…well, _pleasant_, annoying though he finds the thought. One who values the lost, and many times better than the scavengers scrounging for spare geo.

“I think I have something you’ll enjoy, relic seeker.” 

The strange, genial lilt to the adventurer’s voice precedes him, and Lemm groans inwardly. His traitorous thoughts had summoned him. 

“Confident, aren’t we?” Lemm says dryly.

The adventurer tips his hat with a smile as he emerges into view.

He studies Quirrel as he draws the parcel from behind his back, noting the care with which the bug holds it. Gentle-handed, though he must more than capable of violence. Everyone had to be to survive at these depths. Quirrel sets the parcel on the counter between them, not noticing the way Lemm stares a moment too long.

“Careful now,” the adventurer murmurs as Lemm sets his hands upon the offering and gently unfurls the bundle.

For a moment, Lemm thinks of the Pale King, of the little knight, eerie and much too quiet. It is both. It is neither.

“An idol of the Hollow Knight…” Lemm says, a note short of breathless, then he coughs. “A, a rare thing, indeed. I can offer a hefty sum for such an object.”

“No.”

Lemm stares dumbly, mouth ajar beneath his mask.

“No? Why, why would you bring it to me then?”

“It’s a gift.”

Lemm goes silent and still. Then he squints, appraising Quirrel while warmth creeps along his carapice. No one had ever given him a gift before.

“This is not some kind of trick? I…I won’t give it back!”

And Quirrel, of all things, laughs, arms crossing around his middle. A handsome sound, and it does well to cover Lemm’s own undignified sputtering.

“I would not dream of it. Though I do have one request.”

Of course. No strings attached for such a rarity. Who else but a complete fool would offer something so valuable for free—

Quirrel pulls out another item, a long stemmed bottle of dark glass.

“I found this as well. Care to share it with me?”

Lemm looks at the wine in Quirrel’s hands, then at the adventurer’s face, scanning for signs of falsehood. There’s few visitors and little point in keeping shop most days…and it has been ages since he’s had something fine to drink. So many of the ancient vintages had long spoiled or been shattered by the mindless aristocrats that still lurch about the city.

“It…it better not be poison,” Lemm grumbles.

* * *

It turns out to be poison, of a kind. The wine is dark, rich, and soothes his dourness after a single glass. They drink slow and talk intermittently in the room above Lemm’s shop, watching the rain through its singular grand window. Lemm’s never brought another soul here, not that he would admit it. A place for him and his artifacts alone, though the gentle speech and laughter of another does not detract from its comfort too much. 

Quirrel’s hand, normally so steady, wavers as he pours, and Lemm grabs the bottle before the wine can slosh over the edge of his glass.

“Don’t hog it all,” he slurs.

“I haven’t,” Quirrel says, blinking, then he narrows his eyes. “Have I?”

“Yes, you dimwit.” Though Lemm doesn’t know himself. He takes a large sip, savoring the bite, the rich dryness that settles on his tongue.

Quirrel stills, watching him. Lemm stares owlishly in return.

“What?”

“Your mask…may I see your face?” 

Lemm frowns. He had drawn his cloth aside to imbibe properly. Much too exposed, much too warm. 

“I…Why?”

“We both have curious natures. I suppose I want to know what you look like.” 

And there’s his smile again, though perhaps much too wide and open, making Lemm feel hotter still. He takes another heavy pull of wine.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to—”

“I’m very plain. Don’t be surprised.” Lemm grumbles into his glass. He sets it down quickly, eyes trained beneath Quirrel’s chin while he draws the cloth up and over his head. “There. Happy?”

He begins to draw his mask down, but a hand catches his wrist.

“Wait. I can’t see you properly…” Quirrel murmurs. “I need a closer look.”

And there’s heat along Lemm’s face, a lack of light, the sound of rain, huge eyes, half-mast and overwhelming. Lemm looks away immediately. 

“Y-you’re too close, what’re you—”

His words are swallowed with a tentative press of lips, as quick as a flicker of a candle. Only the dark gaze, the hand still clutching his wrist, short, wine-sweet breath, lingers.

“I…I’m sorr—”

Lemm surges, unthinking, capturing his lips again, glass clattering to the floor with an ample splash, such a waste of good wine. He kisses hard and quick, afraid it may be his only chance, that Quirrel would push him away, leave him to his artifacts and bugs whose lives ended centuries ago. 

He grunts as the adventurer answers his hunger, tongue and the promise of teeth, chirping as he’s tipped backwards, a gentle vertigo stunning him.

Quirrel’s weight, his warmth atop him, his free hand grasping his other wrist, holding it against the floor. Perhaps he is afraid too. So simple. So foolish. How could Lemm say no, shifting and squirming into each touch, more naked than he’s ever been before another soul?

Lips press a hot line along his neck, mapping down his body, finally, finally releasing his wrists to pin his hips as his mouth kisses lower.

“_Quirrel_,” his name expelled like a curse.

The adventurer’s tongue finds the swelling slit where his cock’s begun to emerge, throbbing fully to life beneath Quirrel’s sloppy, drunken mouth. With the bug’s mask atop his head, he can only see his lips and tongue at work, coaxing him out, leaving glistening saliva along his carapice. Lemm cover his mouth to silence himself and grabs at Quirrel’s mask, fingers dumbed by drink, by the sweltering suction of Quirrel’s mouth. He barely manages to tug the mask off, revealing a cloth headdress he can sink his fingers into, claw against as Quirrel hums and buries his mouth to the hilt, suckling and moaning. The adventurer’s hand slips between his own thighs, touching himself— _sweet Pale King_—Quirrel flushed and lost, moaning around him, drawing him so very deep and holding—

Lemm cracks his head on the stone as he tosses it back, jerking into the unbelievable, trembling warmth that will not let him think, not let him go. Quirrel does not even draw off, only chokes and swallows and watches with thinned eyes as Lemm unravels beneath him.

When Lemm can’t take any more, each gentle suck nearly painful, he paws at Quirrel’s head weakly with a quiet whimper. The adventurer pulls back with a gasp, spend and spit glistening along his swollen mouth. 

“You are very handsome, relic seeker.” He whispers, voice hoarse, edged with a genuine neediness that brushes at the too soon shivery heat settling in Lemm’s guts.

“Get up here,” Lemm grunts, tugging the knot beneath Quirrel’s chin until he complies, a messy, uncoordinated event that leaves Quirrel half on top of him, half against his side.

Lemm takes what he wants before embarrassment freezes him, grasps Quirrel’s cock, hard and heavy and leaking like he would burst. The noise Quirrel makes has his own cock twitching with traitorous, swift interest. 

“Lemm—y-you don’t have to—” 

“Shut up.”

Quirrel buries his face into the crook of his neck, whining next to his head, making his sweet sounds impossible to block out. Lemm tips his head back, his body aching and alive, leaking against his stomach so soon, much too soon. He’s unwilling to even look at his own questing hand as he finds the slit just beneath Quirrel’s cock, just as wet, just as eager, and slips a finger inside. Quirrel groans, high and hard, going still as stone, then a hot, flowing gush splashes over his fingers, his body tightening like a vice around him.

“O-oh, Lemm, p-please…”

Lemm swears as Quirrel grasps his cock, eager even as he shivers through aftershocks, pressing his cock to his slit. Lemm withdraws his hand quickly, grasps Quirrel’s hips just as the adventurer sinks onto him, both moaning. They move in an uncoordinated mess, Quirrel bracing his arms above Lemm’s shoulders, watching the seeker as he snaps into him, all need and heat, burning beneath that gaze. Quirrel’s cock drags against his belly, still hard, and Lemm grabs it, groping him messily so the bug’s eyes flutter and lose focus, finally unable to stare into his soul. Lost Gods, but Quirrel is hot and perfect, squeezing and needful; it’s so easy to lose himself within, each thrust making him quake and gasp his name.

Lemm comes first, moaning hard and low, filling Quirrel up, spend pooling and clinging where their bodies meet—how could he come so much still—but he can’t spare it another thought as Quirrel spills a moment later, enraptured by his sounds and the pulsing warmth of his body. 

His heart’s just beginning to settle when Quirrel shifts his hips again, the wettened slap of their bodies forcing another swear from him. Slow, so slow, nearly too much to take. He tries to frown but can’t quite manage it, and Quirrel’s shaky smile returns.

“Just…once more?”

“…whatever.”


End file.
